Chant du Cygne
by DarkUnderworld
Summary: Raphael is injured and running for his life, or maybe, he's running for another reason...
1. Chant du Cygne

**Hello all! This story was supposed to be a one shot, and then it grew from there. Anyway, _chant du cygnet_ means swan song in French. This is the first of four chapters in what I like to think as my 'French Note' series... I hope you all enjoy!:)**

**Also a giant thank you to Amonraphoenix for beta reading this chapter for me, and encouraging me to do three other you are awesome!**

**Anyway, please enjoy:)**

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**Chapter 1: ****Chant du Cygne**

**Raphael** stumbled; his knees striking hard against the damp stone. He didn't feel his flesh scraped away from his kneecaps as he struggled desperately to stand. He placed a steadying hand against the moisture covered brick wall and blindly pushed onwards.

His breath came out in ragged gasps, the heat of his exhalations hitting the cold air, gathering into small puffs of transparent white mist before vanishing into the darkness.

He needed to get away; escape his pursuer before he caught up with him. His vision wavered and he wasn't sure if it was because the tunnel was dimly lit, or if it was because his vision was actually beginning to failing him.

Using his right hand, he placed it against the wall to guide his staggering movements; a heavy trail of crimson smeared across the earth-toned brick behind him like a macabre arrow, pointing the direction he had come and where he had gone.

His other hand was desperately clutching his throat in a valiant effort to try to stem the crimson tide that pumped more and more of his precious life blood out of his body with every fluttering beat of his straining heart.

Pushing away from the wall, he staggered back the way he had come, doubling back slightly and taking a smaller, narrower passage, hoping that he would be able to conceal the direction he had gone, his pursuer following the bloody trail Raphael had left on the wall to lead him away from where he had gone.

Making his way slowly in the dark, he tried not to touch the walls as he waded through ankle deep, stagnant water, hoping to keep his presence concealed.

The sewer floor suddenly vanished from beneath his feet as he stepped out into nothingness; an endless black hole from which he would never return.

Falling forward he tumbled onto his side, sliding and rolling through mud and refuse slicked debris, before finally coming to rest at the bottom of some sort of embankment.

He may have lost consciousness for a moment, he wasn't sure, but his world had gone frighteningly dark, and when he opened his eyes, his world remained that way.

Trying to repress a cry of agony, a pathetic whimper managed to creep past his lips parched lips anyway.

Gathering himself he tried to move, tried to do anything but sit and wait to either die, or have his pursuer find him.

_Move damn it, move! _he screamed at himself inside his head as he forced his failing body to reach out with a shaking hand and drag his broken body through the cold, slick mud and rancid filth he had fallen into.

He felt tears of bitter frustration sting his eyes as his fingers spasmed, trying to claw his fingers deeper into the muck and drag himself forward a few feet more.

Biting back another cry of pain as every nerve ending he had in his body lit up in agony, he was able to pull himself forward a measly few inches. Ignoring the pain, he forced himself to again repeat the action, his fingers scraping against what could only be a tunnel wall.

The space he occupied felt small and enclosed, as if he had fallen into some sort of collection point or unused water reservoir, and he couldn't get out.

He was trapped.

Closing his eyes in grim resignation, he rolled onto his side, his breath catching in his throat as agony blazed across his chest. He made another pathetic whimpering noise and hated himself for it.

He refused to go out like some snivelling, pitiful coward.

Using the wall for support he managed to drag himself up so that his carapace was leaning against the wall. A choked sob escaped his bloodied lips; pain ripping tiny trails of blood red agony across is plastron. He took in a rattling gasp of air; vicious razors tearing into his delicate lungs causing him to choke and struggle for breath.

_Is it supposed to be this hard to breathe?_ he wondered to himself in confusion.

Taking in another shuddering breath, he let out a cry of agony as stars exploded before his eyes as tears of frustration rolled down his cold cheeks.

He closed his eyes; the sound of his heart pounding in his chest filled the small space.

_Is my heart slowing? Was the previous beat just that much slower than the last?_ he questioned himself fearfully.

He pushed harder upon the laceration that had torn through the sensitive skin of his throat. He was no doctor but he was pretty sure more than just skin, muscle and tendons had been cut.

Turning his attention from this, he realized that the blindness that engulfed him seemed to heighten all of his other senses; almost painfully so. He could hear the faint drip of water upon metal some distance away and the smooth roll of moisture running down stone walls. He could smell the scent of his own sweat, blood, and the stench of sewage; biting, and bitter. He could feel the rough texture of brick behind his carapace and the slime encrusted floor, rife with unknown debris, waste and mud that had begun to leach a cold, clinging numbness across his skin and into his flesh. But beneath all of this, he could smell the salt from his own frustrated, unwanted tears, and feel the warm damp they produced down his cheeks.

Steel bands of pressure suddenly wrapped their unforgiving, painful grip across his plastron, making his breath catch in his throat, a gurgle of frothy blood trickling from between his lips as he choked on it.

He tried to stifle the sound, its echo bouncing off of the curved walls, possibly alerting his pursuer to his location.

Listening, he thought he could detect the faint splash of a foot striking water, the pace quickening, purposeful; almost frantic.

_Are the footsteps getting closer?_ he silently asked himself as he strained to determine if the rapid sound of running through a series of water drenched tunnels was getting closer, or further away.

He strained his hearing to its limit, trying to quiet his breathing and ignore the gentle beating of his heart, the rhythm melodic; frighteningly so. The low cadence was soothing, almost hypnotising; lulling him into a dark sleep from which he would never awaken.

Raphael finally only detected silence. He concluded that his mind was obviously playing tricks on him, making him believe that his pursuer was close, when in reality; he was alone; completely and utterly.

He opened his eyes, his vision managing to pierce the inky darkness enough to allow him to view his surrounding and confirm his impression of a small circular hole.

He leaned his head back against the cool, damp brick wall, clenching his jaw together and reaching out a shaking hand, attempting to gain enough purchase to haul himself to his feet. He slowly pulled his knee up towards his plastron, straining to accomplish what should have been such a simple task.

Using the wall as support he pushed up against it, forcing his protesting muscles to obey his desperate commands to move, to run, and to get further away. But his effort was to be in vain. His foot slid upon the muck that covered the ground, the slight progress he had made in lifting himself up off the ground, only increasing his pain filled agony as he crashed back to it.

The air was driven forcefully from his lungs and lights danced before his eyes. At that moment he came to the grim realization that he didn't have enough strength in him to try again.

He was going to die in a filthy hole, alone and in the dark. He smiled bitterly to himself, thinking that his death was somewhat fitting. He had lived almost all of his life, hidden, within and living in the dark, without anyone knowing or even caring that he existed, and now, he would die there, almost no one the wiser of his existence or his death. A brief life extinguished with brutal violence, which was the same way with which he had lived.

He managed to let out a mirthless chuckle, though it sounded more like a choked cry of regret.

Closing his eyes, he listened to the pained wheezing of his struggling breaths, wondering how close his killer was to finding him, or if his killer had even bothered to pursue him.

This last thought intrigued him slightly.

Had his killer known he had already delivered the mortal blow, and had not bothered to pursue his fleeing victim? Or had he pursued, wanting to make sure he finished the job he had begun, and had managed to lose him within the winding twisting tunnels of the city's sewer system?

He listened to the sounds around him, his body becoming oddly numb, his thoughts more clouded, less clear and coherent.

Balling up his free hand into a fist, he slammed it into the wall behind him, jarring his injuries. He drew in a sharp, painful intake of breath, and let out a quick hiss, followed by a curse. He tried to draw in another breath and found that his chest felt even tighter than it had before.

He forced himself to ignore the pain and take in a gasp of air, which didn't seem to help his breathlessness.

He snarled angrily. He didn't want to go out like this. If he was going to die, he wanted to go out in a blaze of glory, taking as many of his enemies with him as he went. He hadn't planned on dying, slumped up against a brick wall, covered in mud and waste; tears of despair rolling down his cold, numb cheeks.

But he hadn't stayed to fight. He hadn't fought back as hard as he should have. He hadn't gone in for the kill when the opportunity had presented itself. Instead, he had hesitated, and that hesitation, that lack of resolve, of conviction, had left him open and vulnerable.

His killer had taken full advantage of Raphael's split second indecision; that singular realization that if Raphael made that move, performed that brutal, deadly action, there would have been no going back. It would be an action that could not be undone, and he could not allow himself to bear that kind of heavy burden.

His killer had seen the opportunity, a weakness in his opponent's defences, and trained fighter that he was, did not hesitate; not for a single moment. He moved in for the kill, his movements sure, skillful and true.

When steel pierced weak, delicate flesh, Raphael had done the only thing he could, he ran.

He ran for several reasons, and not because he was a coward. He could face death head on and not bat an eye, was prepared for it; had always been prepared for that singular, final eventuality. But he had convinced himself that he had to run because he had believed he could escape his attacker, and if he managed to get away, he would be able to recover, heal and fight another day. But deep down, Raphael knew that this was a lie. He knew the blow that had been struck was a mortal one, and that his time had become finite. He was dying, and by running, he was going to accomplish one last desperate act before he finally died; he was going to conceal his death.

He knew he was still too close to where he and his killer had fought, but it was the best he could do, trapped as he was within this filthy hole. He was going to leave his killer with the belief that Raphael had managed to escape, and that he was still alive, somewhere, out there. Whether plotting his revenge or just healing, his killer would believe that he was still alive.

And that was going to be his final act; his eloquent, poignant gesture.

Trying to move his head, he found that he could only move it very slightly, his limbs having long since gone numb, the cold creeping into his flesh, his bone and finally, into his very soul. He stared into the dimly lit darkness, realizing that his hand had long since slipped away from his throat, lying limply at his side; his precious life slipping away by seconds. Each beat of his heart was like a tick of a timer, counting down the very last moments of his life.

He took in a slight, rattling whisper of breath, his limbs heavy, heart faint. The sounds of running footsteps through damp tunnels echoed around him, coming closer. A voice raised in hue and cry, the voice of his murder bouncing and sliding along the circular tunnel walls that had become his unwanted resting place.

Raphael felt his vision grow dark, the painful agony he had been enduring seeming to dim as his final breath exited his now still lungs.

A figure leapt in front of him, mud and waste slopping onto his legs, not that he could feel this, but he was dimly aware that this action had occurred.

His heartbeat fluttered, giving one last, final, pitiful, desperate pump before growing still.

His final act, not made out of hate or fear, but of love, ultimately made in vain.

Raphael's vision faded completely. The final image burned into his very soul, was the tear stained, cerulean blue mask of his killer, his murderer...his brother.

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**Tissue...anyone?**


	2. Note de la Mort

**Hello all, alright here is the second chapter, I hope you all enjoy it as much as the first chapter:)**

**A giant thank you to Kaithelonechampion, dondena, Tori657, baturtlesab1, TurtlezRule95, Kimmie98, SleepingSeeker and Anonymous Vulture for your amazing reviews!**

**also a huge thank you to Amonraphoenix for taking the time and effort to beta this chapter for me, thank you so much! **

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** Note del la Mort**

**Leonardo** didn't know what happened. His whole world, his entire focus had narrowed down to nothing but an all consuming, blinding... Rage.

He had never felt so angry in his entire life. He was tired of the constant digs, and blatant disobedience from his hot-headed younger sibling.

The verbal argument had quickly developed into a physical fight. Raphael threw the first punch just as Leonardo was turning away, tired and disappointed with his younger sibling, and not wanting to give into Raphael's baiting.

But then Raphael's fist had connected with Leonardo's jaw, hard enough that his head whipped around and he momentarily lost his balance. At this point, Leonardo lost the inner struggle he had with the remaining, frayed threads of his temper.

At that moment, he wanted to hurt Raphael. He wanted to hurt him to teach him a lesson in respect, but it was more than that. He wanted to hurt him so that Raphael would know how much his brother's anger and hatred towards him hurt.

Leonardo wanted Raphael to understand that each broken curfew, each childish tirade, each temper tantrum, and each and every single harsh, disapproving word and look, cut deeply into Leonardo's very soul.

His blades slid free of their sheathes, dancing and twirling; a beautiful, graceful, elegant symphony of polished steel, and toned, lithe muscles moving in concert for the purpose of injury, deadly or otherwise.

His mind swirled with red tinted rage, his lips pulled back into a feral snarl as steel repeatedly struck steel, and flesh connected with flesh. Neither gave in, each pushing forward heedless of the consequences.

At that moment, Leonardo felt as if he perhaps hated Raphael as much as Raphael hated him. He briefly wondered if he could love someone as much as he could hate them.

Adrenalin pumped fiercely through Leonardo's body, his breathing heavy and rapid. His muscles had begun to burn, his swords growing heavy as sweat began to trickle uncomfortably down his brow and neck.

His entire focus was concentrated on breaking through his brother's defences, but Raphael gave as good as he got. Grunts, snarls, curses, the ringing of metal and the sound of flesh striking flesh reverberated around them.

His steady, furious black eyed gaze bore into Raphael's molten gold, rage filled eyes. Leonardo could see his own death in his brother's eyes, and instead of shocking him, or causing him to draw back in horror, to cease his ever more furious and aggressive attacks upon his brother, it only seemed to spur him forward with an even greater vicious violence.

Something suddenly changed in the air, as if lightning had struck and there was a great release of crackling energy; full of intent and purpose.

Raphael blinked.

Leonardo realized that after staring into the dark and gaping abyss that had somehow formed between he and his brother, that it was Raphael who had to turn away.

This was all the encouragement Leonardo needed. His brother left an opening in his defences and Leonardo took full advantage of it. He struck with brutal swiftness and was merciless in his attack.

His foot slammed into his brother's plastron, and there was the distinctive crack of bone breaking as he followed through with his assault. Raphael stumbled backwards, his body hunched over as he instinctively tried to protect his broken ribs, his guard up, anger etched into every line of his face as Leonardo loomed over him. Leonardo lunged forward, blinded by Rage; that dark, taunting emotion that whispered silkily through his mind urging him forward. He struck out with his swords, Raphael's sais raised against the attack, steel striking steel and holding just for a moment.

Time slowed to a crawl, yet somehow, managed to speed up at the same instant. Raphael's sais held back his katana blades, but Leonardo was too consumed by fury to stop and instead pushed his strength against his brother's and his swords slid forward with the scream of metal against metal.

The air stilled, Leonardo's gasp of horror filling the dojo as Raphael stumbled back. His brother's sais hit the ground, his hand quickly going to his throat, trying to stem the dark crimson tide that flowed down in ghastly contrast against his brother's emerald skin.

Leonardo blinked staring at the end of his beloved katana blade, now stained with bright red accusation.

He didn't know how long he stood there, his mind too shocked to even process what had just happened, let alone what he had just done. It was as if his mind was stuck within a loop of time, or just outside of it. He could see his every move, his every action with crystal clarity, and he could see that there had been so many different choices he could have made, and yet he had chosen the most horrible, vicious, unforgivable one.

He forced his eyes past his blade and realized that he was alone; Raphael was gone. He shook himself from his stupor and stumbled forward a few steps. He sheathed his swords and bent down, picking up his brother's abandoned sais. He straightened, sliding the sais through his belt before he ran from the dojo, following the trail of blood out into the living room where the damning drops of blood mysteriously stopped.

Leonardo had by this time convinced himself that he hadn't actually sliced open his brother's throat. Raphael had just stormed off to get a band-aid for the nick Leonardo had given him. He kept telling himself this over and over, even though his mind screamed at him in denial. He was a skilled swordsman and had a strong inkling of just how badly he had injured his brother, and yet, he couldn't allow himself to accept that he had really performed such horrendous action against his own brother.

He ran to Donatello's lab, believing that he would find Raphael in there, only Donatello wasn't there, he was at April's with Michelangelo.

Leonardo's vision grew dark around the edges, his breathing coming out in harsh gasps as he attempted to push down the ball of panic that was rising in him. His head swung around, looking for any evidence that Raphael had come into the lab and found none.

He ran from the lab and took the stairs two at a time rushing to Raphael's room, throwing open the door because he knew that his brother had a first aid kit stashed beneath his bed. But Raphael wasn't in his room. Leonardo dove forward reaching his hands beneath his brother's bed and found the first aid kit, fully stocked and untouched.

Leonardo felt his heart clench in fear, his vision swimming alarmingly. He managed to stand up on his shaking legs and stumble from his brother's bedroom, his gaze scanning the lower level desperately for any sign of his younger brother. His eyes then caught a smear of crimson upon a stone column leading out of the lair.

Leonardo leapt over the railing and landed easily upon the main floor. He stood and ran towards the entrance of the lair and found another smear of blood across the switch that opened the massive door.

He stared at the blood for a moment wondering why Raphael had run from the lair instead of staying where Leonardo could have helped him.

He opened the door to the lair and took two steps before stopping, his mind fraught with indecision.

_How badly did I hurt him? _Leonardo wondered to himself even as his mind supplied him with the grisly answer. What he couldn't understand, was why Raphael was running.

_Did his brother hate him that much that he would rather die than have him near_? He questioned as he forced his feet forward.

Every moment he wasted, the likelihood of Raphael dying from his injury increased. He was trying not to think about the fact that_ he _was the one who had given Raphael that grievous injury to begin with. Because if he thought about that, he wouldn't be able to function. The horror would swallow him whole and he would curl into the fetal position, unable to do even the slightest thing for his brother.

His brother whom he may have mortally wounded.

He forced his legs to move faster, driving himself deeper and deeper within the twisting labyrinth of tunnels that made up New York City's sewer system.

There were droplets of blood that weaved and trailed along the ground, until finally the trail vanished as the water level in the tunnel rose.

He stopped and looked around desperately. He wanted to shout his brother's name but the thought that Raphael had run because he was scared of what Leo would do to him -that his brother feared him- stopped the words in his throat.

He swallowed roughly and tried to listen; his frantic heartbeat and the rush of blood through his ears, coupled with his heavy breathing was making it hard to hear any other sounds.

He took a deep, steadying breath and wiped the hot tears away from his cold cheeks, his vision blurring. He desperately turned his head trying to catch even the slightest hint of noise.

He heard something then; the faint splash of a foot hitting water and Leonardo ran, following the faint sound. Unfortunately, his own movements were drowning out the sound he was trying to follow.

He snaked his way through the dimly lit tunnels, a smear of bright red crimson blood, shining like a grotesque beacon across the wall, showed him the direction his brother had gone. Leonardo ran faster, his eyes anxiously scanning for his injured brother. A noise echoed through the tunnel and stopped Leonardo dead in his tracks. He spun around in a circle, trying to locate where the sound had come from.

He held his breath and listened again. He heard the faint scrape of something, almost a crash followed by a cry of pain.

Leonardo ran back the way he had come, wondering if his brother had doubled back to throw him off his trail.

_Are you really that scared of me, Raph? _

Leonardo wiped more tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. There was another noise and Leonardo steered himself down a narrow side tunnel. It was darker than the main tunnel, the inky blackness devouring him whole.

There was a faint whisper of a snarl coming from down the tunnel. Leonardo was able to get his brother's name past his lips. His foot struck air and he slid down an embankment of some sort.

He hit the bottom, but was able to maintain his footing, at least for a moment, until he saw the frighteningly still figure of his brother, slumped up against the wall of the circular muddy hole they were both in.

Leonardo fell to his knees in front of his brother, Raphael's eyes were glassy and stared straight ahead; unseeing. His lips were a shade of blue-green, his face pale and drawn, his plastron drenched in wet crimson horror.

Leonardo shook his head from side to side in disbelieving terror. He knew that Raphael was gone. He knew that his brother was dead, and yet he still reached out towards his brother's throat, desperately seeking a pulse he knew he would never find.

His fingers touched cooling flesh and felt nothing; no movement, the only breathing his own. Leonardo let out a choked cry of anguish as he closed his brother's sightless eyes before gathering Raphael up into his arms and rocking back and forth. His mind and voice screamed into the inky void that surrounded them: Why?

Why had Raphael run? Why had they fought so brutally and so viciously in the first place? Why did his brother have to die? Why did he kill his brother; his own flesh and blood?

He had sworn an oath to his dying father that he would protect his brothers with his life, and instead protecting Raphael's life, he had taken it, without a single thought.

He could have attacked differently, he knew he could have, instead he had -like a vicious animal- gone straight for the throat, a killing blow. One swift, skillful lunge with his blade and he had cut into his brother's jugular.

Leonardo buried his beak into his brothers throat and openly wept. He told his brother repeatedly that he was sorry, so very sorry, asking his forgiveness over and over. He knew that his brother had probably hated him in the end; had probably feared the monster Leonardo had become, but he told Raphael the he loved him; that even though he hated him, Leonardo loved him.

As he knelt in the muddy filth, the cold from the stone leaching into his very bones, he couldn't fathom how he was going to move from the spot where his brother had breathed his last breath, lying in darkness, alone, in pain and betrayed by the brother who he had trusted.

Black grief tore his soul to shreds.

It hurt.

He couldn't believe that his heart somehow still beat, because it was broken; shattered into a millions pieces that would never heal, never be whole again.

Ever.

In a moment of fury he had committed fratricide. He had always accused Raphael of being the monster. Raphael was the one who would always lash out unthinkingly and injure a sibling. But Raphael wasn't the monster, he was.

Raphael had stopped.

In a moment of clarity, Raphael had realized what one of them was about to do. He had understood that they had both gone too far; had both slipped into some sick and twisted power struggle where only one would walk away alive. Raphael had tried to stop him by purposefully letting his guard down, and by pausing in his vicious attack. But Leonardo's mind had not understood his brother's sudden capitulation, only seeing an opening -a weakness- and in response, he had struck with vicious and deadly intent.

He pulled away from his brother's neck, staring at the brutal gash he had sliced into his brother's throat. Leonardo let out another choked sob of grief as his shaking fingers lightly traced the raw, open wound.

He had betrayed his brother in an unforgivable way, and that there was only one way to atone for what he had done. He gently placed his brother back against the wall and slid one sai from his belt, placing it in his brothers limp hand.

He took a deep breath and tried not to think about his two remaining siblings, Michelangelo and Donatello, and what they would come home to; signs of violence, blood and two missing brothers.

He hoped they wouldn't mourn him. They could mourn Raphael, but not him. He did not deserve that honour; though he regretted the idea of never being able to see his two younger siblings again. He only wished that he could ask their forgiveness, and tell them that he loved them, but he didn't deserve forgiveness or the ability to say goodbye, because Raphael hadn't been given that chance either.

Leonardo swallowed roughly and pulled Raphael's other sai from his belt, placing the pointed tip against his own throat. It only made sense for him to take his own life with his brother's beloved weapon, since he had taken Raphael's own life with his.

He gazed over at his brother, wondering why he had run. Would he have lived if he had stayed? Could he have saved his brother, or had the cut been too deep? But he already knew the answer to the second question. Raphael would have bled out anyway. Leonardo's basic knowledge of medicine may have been able to keep his brother alive, but not for long. Only if Donatello had been home would Raphael have had a chance of survival, but Donatello hadn't been home, nor would he have been able to make it home in time.

Looking at Raphael he couldn't understand why his brother had wanted to die alone. Had Raphael really hated him so much that he hadn't even wanted to spend the final moments of his life with him?

This thought drove another dark wave of despair rolling through him. He closed his eyes pressing the tip harder into his flesh. He hoped he would be able to ask him.

The sharp tip broke through his skin and he paused. He pulled the sai away from his neck and studied his brother, brushing his fingers across Raphael's cold cheek; twin trails of salty tears still evident.

The look in Raphael's eyes when Leonardo had struck the fatal blow hadn't been betrayal, surprise or hatred. Instead, the look in his brother's eyes had been one of acceptance; acceptance of everything that had just happened and what was about to happen. There had also been a spark of purpose, of determination within those golden depths that now gave Leonardo pause.

He asked his brother why he ran? Why he had accepted death when Raphael never accepted defeat? Leonardo just couldn't seem to understand. Raphael hadn't wanted to be found. He had purposely led him away, tried to get Leonardo to search through an endless labyrinth, his search proving futile. He would have eventually given up, believing that Raphael had managed to get away. With no body Leonardo would have been able to convince himself that Raphael had managed to survive their vicious encounter.

Leonardo would have told himself that the blow he had dealt had not been as serious as first feared, and that his brother had somehow managed to get some sort of medical attention, and survived. And Leonardo would have believed that his brother was still out there, somewhere, possibly plotting his revenge or just too pissed off to come home.

Michelangelo and Donatello would have chastised him, they may even have hated him for a while, but at least, none of them would have known he was a murderer.

But truthfully, no matter how much he would have tried to convince himself that Raphael was still alive, he would have known. He would have known the truth, but he may have been able to pretend. The guilt would wear him away by inches, but he would have been able to go on, clinging to the very slim hope that he was wrong, and that Raphael still lived.

But in the end, this didn't matter because Leonardo knew the tragic, horrific truth, Raphael was dead, and Leonardo had killed him.

Leonardo lifted the sai back to his throat. He whispered '_Forgive me', _as the sharp steel bit deeper into his flesh.

He hesitated again, his eyes sliding back to his brother who had, in his final moments, forgiven him. Leonardo swallowed, gathering up his resolve again to do the honourable thing, and take his own life in penance.

But his hand did not drag the pointed tip of the weapon across the vulnerable skin of his throat, instead the sai slipped from his numb fingers to clatter upon the mud slicked stone floor.

He understood his brother's last wishes, and he found he could not go against them. No matter how much he wanted to, he couldn't because that would be the ultimate dishonour to his brother.

Reaching out, he brushed his brother's cheek on final time, placing his brother's other sai into his other hand. He embraced his brother, and unsheathed his katana blade, the one he had used to slit his brother's throat and reverently lay it in Raphael's lap. He placed a kiss upon his brother's forehead and whispered '_Thank you, Raphael,'_ before standing.

He wanted to bring his brother's body back with him, give him a proper burial beside their father, but he knew he couldn't, because then he would not be able to carry out Raphael's final wishes.

Turning, he easily climbed up the embankment, looking back to take one last look at his brother before he unsheathed his other Katana blade. He drove it into the low roof above the sudden decline of the floor. He cut through stone, brick and mortar, slicing and chipping away at the ceiling until it have a groan of protest, finally giving way, and blocking the tunnel.

The place where his brother had died had now become his tomb.

Taking a step he fell to his knees and wept in despair. His choked and broken sobs filled the air around him; the devastation of his grief nearly tangible in its depth and intensity.

He wasn't sure how long it was before he was finally able to stand, his legs unsteady beneath him. Laying a hand upon the cool stone that marked his brother's tomb, he slowly made his way back to the lair, knowing he would never be able to openly show his grief, and that he would have to lie to his younger siblings for the rest of his life.

Leonardo knew that this punishment was somehow far worse, crueler and more apt a sentence than taking his own life, because his penance was having to _live _with what he had done.

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**Thoughts?**


	3. La Cadence Finale

**Hello all, the next installment of my French Note series is finally up:)**

**I'd like to thank Lauraliath31, dondena, anon, Kaithelonechampion, Who am I. Well. I'm just me, tori657 and SleepingSeeker for your amazing reviews!**

**I'd also like to thank the lovely Amonraphoenix for taking the time and beta reading this chapter for me, you are amazing!:D**

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**A/N a cadence is melodic or harmonic configuration that creates a sense of repose or resolution**

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La Cadence Finale

**Michelangelo** frowned in worry. It had been a month since Raphael and Leonardo had fought so badly that Raphael had stormed off and hadn't come home. They had searched the city, infiltrated all of the hideouts and headquarters of their enemies, but had found no sign of their missing hot-headed brother.

He had been furious with Leonardo.

His oldest brother tended to be strict with all of them, expecting exacting standards no one could live up to; not even Leonardo himself. Ever since Master Splinter had died, Leonardo had been even more severe and demanding, especially when it came to Raphael.

And lately, their fights have been getting worse, more violent and vicious, but still, Raphael had never actually _left_ before. Raphael would go cool off on a favourite rooftop, maybe even crash at April and Casey's apartment for a few nights. But this time, he hadn't done any of these things.

He was just...gone.

Michelangelo knew that Leonardo felt responsible for Raphael leaving, and guilt was obviously eating away at him, but his oldest brother seemed almost...haunted.

Leonardo refused to even talk about what the fight was about that he and Raphael had before he disappeared. Leonardo had admitted that he had injured Raphael, but could not or would not say how badly.

When they had searched for Raphael, Leonardo's heart didn't really seem in it, his gaze always distant, troubled and guilt-stricken.

One night after infiltrating a hidden base operated by Bishop, and finding no sign of Raphael, they had all come home, exhausted physically and emotionally; the very air filled with gloomy despondency.

Michelangelo had been thrilled that Bishop didn't have their brother, and neither did the Purple Dragons, Baxter Stockman or the Shredder. But at the same time, if one of their enemies had captured Raphael, then they would have found him and brought him home, instead he was still missing.

Leonardo had followed every order Donatello had given -as Leonardo seemed to have no interest in either leading them in their mission or giving them orders- but it was as if Leonardo was only going through the motions. And when they had come back to the lair empty handed yet again, Michelangelo had lashed out in angry frustration. He was heartbroken, confused and felt lost. He didn't know what to do next, because the thought of just letting Raphael vanish terrified him. So he had taken his frustration out on his oldest brother.

Michelangelo had yelled -said horrible, harsh, hurtful things. He had said that it was Leonardo's fault that Raphael was gone, and these words seemed to strike a brutal, ringing cord with Leonardo whose face had paled so much and so fast, that Michelangelo had been worried that his oldest brother was going to faint, or collapse. But Leonardo seemed to get control of himself, giving a slight nod of agreement, and telling him that he was right, that it was his fault that Raphael was gone. Leonardo had then turned on his heel disappearing into his bedroom and not coming out for the rest of the night.

When Leonardo emerged the next morning he was pale, his cheeks hollow, while dark smudges sat beneath his glassy, bloodshot eyes. It was then that Michelangelo became concerned for Leonardo's wellbeing and he felt responsible and guilty about what he had said to his brother the previous evening. He had apologized to his big brother, telling him that he was sure that it wasn't his fault that Raphael had left.

Leonardo had gazed at him for a moment, as if he couldn't quite process Michelangelo's words, then Leonardo blinked, and gave a bitter, almost cruel smile. He reached out with a shaking hand and grabbed Michelangelo's shoulder. His grip was harsh, almost punishing, and Michelangelo was too shocked to give any protest. Instead, his eyes locked onto his brother's bloodshot ones.

Very seriously Leonardo told Michelangelo, in an intense voice, filled with deep emotion, that Leonardo was in fact responsible for Raphael's disappearance, and to never, ever forget it. Leonardo had then pulled his vice-like grip away from Michelangelo's shoulder and had turned and walked away, leaving Michelangelo with a dark, horrible feeling swimming around in his gut.

A feeling of neglected and grim desertion had managed to seep in through the cracks of Michelangelo's upbeat personality and no matter how much he struggled against the toxic emotions he seemed unable to drag himself out.

Michelangelo had eventually walked up to Raphael's bedroom, looking around at the mess his brother had left it in. He had stepped over the threshold and into Raphael's bedroom. He had never actually been in his brother's bedroom before, fearing reprisals from his hot-headed brother, and he had never been brave, or stupid enough to dare such a thing before now.

He had walked over and slowly sat down on his brother's bed. His brother's room had felt oddly empty; of course, so did the whole lair. Raphael's personality had the ability to fill whole rooms, making the room feel as if it was overcrowded. His brother was also very loud at times, the lair echoing with swearing, arguing, and grunting as he pummelled his heavy bag to within an inch of its life. He always turned the TV up way too loud and constantly shouted at his favourite sports team when he felt they weren't playing their best and was even louder when they were. And now, the lair felt overly quiet and empty, as if they had too much room without Raphael's vibrant personality to fill it.

As he had looked around Raphael's cluttered and messy bedroom, he wondered where Raphael could possibly have gone. He supposed that if Raphael had wanted to leave and not come back, he would have to accept it. He knew that Raphael had always borne the brunt of Leonardo's exacting nature, and that Raphael had wanted to strike out on his own on numerous occasions, finding living in the lair stifling. But he had never left, their bond as brothers and warriors of the same clan had always kept Raphael tethered to them. Also, Raphael could be selfish, angry and at times cruel, but he had a protective streak a mile wide when it came to his family, and he felt as if he could never leave for fear of what may happen to them in his absence.

Michelangelo could only hope that Raphael had found some sort of peace out there in the world, and that he was happy wherever he was.

Weeks slowly turned into months and there was still no sign of Raphael. With each passing day, Leonardo seemed to become gaunter; his eyes, hollow and haunted, as if he was carrying around a great burden that was slowly crushing him under its weight.

Michelangelo wasn't the only one who had noticed Leonardo's change in appearance and behavior. Donatello had approached their brother on several occasions, but was rebuffed every time, Leonardo's tongue cutting deeply and causing Donatello to retreat, leaving Leonardo to his mood swings, and bitter solitude.

And then Leonardo began vanishing; staying out all night and coming home at dawn. Donatello had told Leonardo that if he was looking for Raphael, to let them help, but Leonardo had only replied that he wasn't looking for Raphael, and left it at that, turning away and not allowing any further discussion on the subject.

Michelangelo took a deep, steading breath.

He was tired of watching Leonardo become thinner and thinner with each passing day, his mood more stricken and depressed as he isolated himself from the rest of his family.

It was breaking Michelangelo's heart.

He walked to the dojo intent on talking with Leonardo and trying to pull him out of the dark depression he seemed to have fallen into. He poked his head around the corner. His brother's carapace was towards him. Michelangelo could see that Leonardo was breathing heavily, sweat running down his neck, moisture dotting his arms as well. His katana blade hung limply at his brother's side, his other hand eerily empty.

Michelangelo was about to step into the dojo, but something stopped him. He wasn't sure what it was, perhaps his brother's posture, or maybe it was his fisted right hand, a hand that normally held another katana blade.

Leonardo was right handed, and although Michelangelo had seen Leonardo train diligently with his left hand to make it as strong as his right, he had never seen his brother practicing his katas with only a single blade.

Michelangelo knew that Leonardo's other katana had been taken by Raphael for some unknown reason, but Leonardo owned a spare set of katanas. The sword taken by Raphael could have been easily replaced, only...Leonardo hadn't replaced it.

Michelangelo pulled back, just as Leonardo turned around, but he had managed to catch a look of something almost indescribable burning through Leonardo's eyes before Michelangelo had concealed his presence. He didn't know what he had seen but he felt his stomach sink as he realized that something was wrong; terribly, terribly wrong.

He observed his oldest brother carefully for the next few days. He only picked at his food, pushing it around his plate, almost to make it look like he had eaten, but hadn't. Michelangelo began following Leonardo when he went on his nightly excursions, but his brother never went anywhere. As far as he could tell, Leonardo ran through the city, all night. He stopped muggings, robberies, and other bouts of petty crime if he came across them, but otherwise he just ran; across rooftops, through alleys, and deserted streets. Almost as if he was running _from_ something, or just trying to tire himself out so much that it was all he could do to just make it home, collapsing into bed and falling into an exhausted.

After three nights of the same peculiar behaviour, Michelangelo was surprised that Leonardo was still getting out of bed in the morning and training after only sleeping for two hours, tops. Truthfully, Michelangelo was surprised that Leonardo was still functioning, period. Michelangelo himself was exhausted, and could barely even think straight, let alone train.

But Michelangelo's observation of the change in Leonardo's fighting style had been confirmed when he noticed that when Leonardo went out, he only took one katana blade, and he fought left handed when he broke up the muggings and the robberies. Sometimes he would use both hands on the blade, but otherwise, it was his left hand he used.

He didn't bother asking Leonardo why he didn't use his spare katana to replace the one Raphael had taken, because he knew he wouldn't get a straight answer.

Leonardo didn't talk anymore. He spoke, but only in monosyllables, and didn't seem to pay attention when he was being spoken to. He no longer involved himself in conversations, and he would not engage in any subject at all, especially relating to speculation on where Raphael had gone, and what he could be up to at that moment.

Michelangelo and Donatello had numerous conversations on what to do about Leonardo, but found that they didn't have any answers. But Michelangelo strongly suspected that it was possible that nothing could be fixed until Raphael came home.

Michelangelo felt hopeless and depressed. He wanted to help Leonardo, but he didn't know how. It was then that he came to the decision to talk with Leonardo, and force him to talk. He would lock him in the dojo until he spilled about what was eating away at him; heart and soul.

He strode purposefully to the dojo, but stopped short. Leonardo was exiting the dojo already and the look on his face had Michelangelo pulling back into the shadows.

Grief.

That had been the emotion he had seen in Leonardo's eyes in the dojo so many months ago; overwhelming and unbearable grief, quickly hidden beneath a stony, impenetrable facade.

The look of excruciating loss briefly exposed upon Leonardo's face, made Michelangelo's throat close tightly as a sickening ball of dread formed in his gut.

In the air around his brother, there was hint of desperation that circled him like a dark and heavy shroud.

Leonardo walked past him, not noticing that Michelangelo was lurking in the shadows, before his blue masked brother strode from the lair; his footsteps slow, almost reluctant.

Michelangelo felt a frisson of something race up and down his arms. He slowly and carefully followed Leonardo from the lair, goose bumps forming along his skin as he realized that Leonardo was doing something that he didn't want anyone to know about.

It wasn't as if Leonardo seemed to be checking over his shoulder, making sure he wasn't being followed, but Michelangelo had the impression that his brother wanted to be alone.

Leonardo wove his way through a labyrinth of tunnels, weaving and winding, seemingly without any rhyme or reason. Leonardo finally stopped and Michelangelo too stopped; his heart hammering against his ribs in anticipation and fear, believing that he would be caught at any moment. But Leonardo didn't seem to be paying attention to what was going on around him. Instead he was staring at a piece of sewer wall.

Michelangelo frowned in confusion as Leonardo reached out a shaking hand and gently brushed the wall with his fingertips, dark rust flaking off and fluttering to the ground.

The feeling of dread that had crawled into his stomach suddenly became heavier, thicker, and more tangible.

Michelangelo surveyed his surroundings. They had searched the tunnels for Raphael, but Michelangelo hadn't searched these ones. It was possible that Leonardo or Donatello had, but he wasn't certain.

Leonardo whispered Raphael's name and turned, heading back the way he had come. Michelangelo hid himself, waiting until Leonardo had passed by and then he waited some more.

He finally pulled himself from the shadows and walked to where Leonardo had stood. He brushed his fingers across where Leonardo had brushed his and Michelangelo felt his heart clench in horror as he realized that it wasn't rust or mud that drew a line across the length of the wall, but blood; blood that had dried long, long ago, leaving only a dried brown smear across the cold rough brick.

That Raphael had come this way was a surety, what had happened to him afterwards was completely unknown. He knew Raphael had been hurt, but he hadn't realized just how badly. But it was severe enough to bleed a trail across a good portion of brick, sewer wall.

He turned, following the tunnel down, but found no other signs that Raphael had passed by. There was no more blood, nothing, just empty, echoing tunnels.

Michelangelo turned back around, disheartened and dejected. He slowly made his way back in the direction of the lair, but pulled himself up short when a sound echoed from somewhere down a narrow side tunnel.

He listened intently wondering if he had either imagined the noise, or if it may have just been a rat or water dripping against a pipe. He heard it again, the scrape of rock against rock, and a choked sob.

A hand touched his shoulder as another clamped itself hard over his mouth. He let out a shocked and fearful yelp that was silenced by the iron grip he was now held in. He twisted, just able to catch the sight of a familiar amethyst masked tied over olive hued skin.

Donatello placed a finger to his lips silencing Michelangelo, and pointing down the tunnel.

Donatello led while Michelangelo silently followed. The sounds of anguished sobbing became louder, the closer they got to its source. Leonardo's voice drifted to them and his words froze Michelangelo's blood.

Leonardo's voice was choked, the words too fast at times, at others, stammered and broken, but the meaning horrifyingly clear.

Leonardo's words of apology and stammered, regretful _'I can't, I can't do this, Raph'_ echoed through his mind as his heart completely ceased to beat. A wave of darkness flooded his vision and if it wasn't for Donatello, Michelangelo was positive that he would have slumped to the floor, senseless. Thankfully, Donatello's grip was strong and firm, his words soft and comforting. He couldn't actually process what Donatello was saying, only the intonation of his voice.

Donatello steadied him and dragged him forward.

Leonardo was crouched on the ground, slowly moving one brick at a time from a tunnel that had caved in. The tunnel was dim, but a single candle lit the space causing darkened shadows to dance and move across the walls in threatening ways.

Michelangelo was able to put one foot in front of the other, stumbling over to where Leonardo was talking to himself, or more specifically, to Raphael. If Leonardo noticed their presence, he didn't t acknowledge them, just continued trying to move an entire wall, his hands bloodied and shaking.

Donatello slowly approached Leonardo and listened to his rambling for a moment before stilling Leonardo`s busy, bloody hands.

Leonardo finally seemed to notice them, his eyes widening in horror as he scrambled back, his hand lifting up as if warding off an expected blow.

Michelangelo allowed Donatello to deal with Leonardo, barely being able to function as he dragged his fingers across the fallen bricks.

He didn`t know how long he stood there, staring, his mind oddly blank and yet at the same time, spinning with too many questions to even give voice to one.

He felt as if he was staring down a long tunnel, or rather, standing outside his body observing the scene with detached curiosity, as if trying to solve a difficult puzzle.

The scrape of rough brick across his palms brought him crashing back into his own body. Realization lashed through him like the painful blow of a whip.

Raphael was not missing, he was dead.

All of the months that they had searched, wondered, and worried, were all for naught, because Raphael was well beyond their reach, and way beyond such cares as worry or concern from his family.

Raphael was dead, and Michelangelo suspected his body was buried behind the wall that he now stood in front of.

Michelangelo's body moved of its own volition, as if his mind was no longer in control, pure instinct fuelled by emotion taking over as his fingers dug into the rubble, frantically moving brick and mortar out of the way.

He didn`t know why he was doing this. If Raphael was indeed behind the collapsed wall, then he was long dead. And yet, this thought did not deter him in any way, in fact it only seemed to spur him on.

Donatello's hands clamped down on Michelangelo's own, stilling their frantic movements.

His genius brother's words were soft, but Michelangelo still couldn't make any sense of them, because at that moment, he didn't care about what, why, when or how, all he cared about was getting Raphael out.

Michelangelo turned back and continued his grim task, Donatello finally falling in next to him, dragging out one brick at a time, and setting them aside.

Donatello's face was grim pale, but determined. Leonardo moved beside Donatello, helping to dig, his movements jerky and desperate.

A hole was finally made, one large enough to see through and Donatello forced them all back before he pulled out a flashlight and shined it into the small dark hole.

A moment later Donatello closed his eyes in pain, hanging his head in grief.

Michelangelo did not need to peer inside to know that Raphael was in there; the grief-stricken look on Donatello's face confirmed that he was.

Sitting back on his haunches, Michelangelo stared blankly ahead. A dark wave of grief wrapping around him tightly and consuming him whole.

* * *

**Thoughts?**


End file.
